darted rapidly along, shone with the purest white; and those that rowed past, flung up a shower of glittering sparkles at every stroke of the oar. On the sill of each window were placed pots, full of roses; and their sweet breath floated into the room.
In a large arm-chair, so placed as to command every thing that went by, the view only broken by the waving leaves of the rose trees, sat Mrs. Churchill. On one side was an embroidery-frame, which, from the delicate finish of the wreath, indicated that younger eyes occasionally aided the old lady. On the other was a small table, with an exquisite breakfast-service of Dresden china, from which she was sipping her chocolate. Placed opposite, on a low seat, was her granddaughter, a huge book propped on her knee, from which she was reading aloud. Perhaps there was a charm in that sweet voice, which gave its own unconscious fascination to the long-drawn pages; but there was, also, the still stronger charm of habit.
Mrs. Churchill liked the interminable laby-
